Smitten
by Pants Are An Illusion
Summary: Longshot is smitten.  Smellerbee is curious.  And Jet is always right.


Smellershot is love. I do not own A:TLA.

**Smitten**

Smellerbee had big hands. Not grotesquely big, just bigger than most girls and certainly too big for her skinny, twiggy arms. Longshot liked them. They had personality. Every knobby knuckle and filthy fingernail added something to her identity. Smellerbee just wouldn't be Smellerbee without them. Longshot smiled warmly at the familiarity of the way they worked, gloveless, to polish the various blades and metals of the Freedom Fighters' armory.

There was something beautiful about Smellerbee at that moment – something different from her usual beauty, Longshot meant. She sat on an overturned wooden crate, leaning forward in an incredible display of bad posture, elbows on her knees, head down, hands working. Beads of sweat were forming at her hairline, slipping down her neck, dipping into her collarbone and down the front of her shirt, soaking into the highest wrap of her...oh, spirits. He couldn't do this – not in this heat.

He bowed his head, hiding his eyes beneath the brim of his straw hat, so she couldn't read his mind if she happened to glance his way, or see the dusty pink blush dancing across his cheeks.

Rubbing an oily scrap of fabric against a blade that had seen much better days, Longshot allowed himself to fall into a rhythm of sorts and let go of a breath that he hadn't even known he was holding.

It was hot that day, and Smellerbee had traded her usual shirt and breastplate for an ill-fitting sleeveless shirt that was handed down from one of the boys. The neck was cut square and the sleeves were a few inches thick – Longshot came to the conclusion that it might've been his at one point.

"It _is_ yours," Smellerbee looked up from her work and flashed him a smile while wiping the sweat off her brow.

Longshot hadn't even noticed he'd looked back up. Jet was right, he did have it bad.

The archer inwardly groaned. Jet never gave him a break. It was only natural, the insufferable older boy had said – Longshot had known Smellerbee practically his whole life, of course he had developed feelings for her. And he'd been sure to mention how bathing naked in the hot springs together probably hadn't helped matters. And how he'd marry them one day. And how if he didn't fess up to Bee about his feelings, they'd never end up together.

Jet always knew exactly what not to say.

Longshot sighed and tuned back into Bee's word stream. But she had stopped, and was staring at him with those eyes of hers – so big, deep, and gorgeous that they could probably pierce right through you.

"What's that face for?" She asked, tilting her head slightly and squinting confusedly at him.

Nothing, he shrugged, but his throat had suddenly become tighter. So, that shirt was his? When did she take it?

With a suspicious eyebrow still raised, she answered, "I took it from your room this morning – didn't think you would mind."

She knew he didn't.

At that, Smellerbee cracked another grin, and threw down the knife she was currently working on. She heaved a frustrated breath and bent over to pull off her boots and take the wrappings off her feet. The sleeve of her – or his – shirt slipped off her shoulder as she did so. "It's so damn hot today."

Longshot nodded, watching her as she stretched, working out the kinks in her back. Dapples of sunlight shone through the imperfections of the armory's roof and walls (the ones that would need fixed come the rainy season) and danced across her skin. He allowed himself a small smile – he loved how she steered the conversation in another direction when she could sense reluctance on his part to go down the previous road. He knew she'd bug him about whatever dopey face he had been making later, but for now he admired the beauty she denied.

With a noise of slight annoyance, Smellerbee resumed her work. "Leave it to Jet and Sneers to skive off so all this crap falls to us. Someone needs to tell them that there's a difference between polishing the stuff that people use, and polishing everything that needs it."

Maybe _she_ should, Longshot conveyed with a glance.

"Maybe I will," Smellerbee replied stubbornly, chin in the air.

Longshot chuckled silently – she was cute when she was snooty.

She stuck out her tongue at him and he laughed harder. A faint blush spread across her cheeks, and as quickly as it was there, it was gone.

"I mean really, if they don't want to polish all the junk in here, then why don't they just get rid of it? Melt it down or something – half of this stuff it useless as it is! Look!" She gestured to the thin blade she was currently holding. "This thing's so rusty that there's nothing left to polish! Removing the rust would mean getting rid of it entirely!"

To prove her point she hurled the knife to the wall opposite her with one, well-practiced swoop of her arm. It shattered. She stared after it. "I'm not cleaning that up." She sat back down – hard – and bristled, crossing her arms tightly over her chest.

She was obnoxiously adorable when she was angry. The right corner of his lips twitched upward.

Smitten. That's the word Jet had used – the word Longshot chose to try and ignore. And the word that Bee made more and more difficult to ignore every day.

The archer set a ratty looking scythe off to the side, knowing that it was in as good a condition as it ever would be for the state it was in. Why did they even have that thing?

"I have no idea," Smellerbee ground out lowly, eyebrows still twisted together, nose still crinkled, and lips still pouting. "Ask Jet. He has this crazy notion that we'll need it someday. Although by that time it will be too decrepit to do anything with except make the Fire Nation laugh their asses off."

Longshot reckoned Smellerbee could do damage with it if she wanted to bad enough.

"You think so?" She scoffed. "Maayybe…" But she certainly looked as if she agreed. Everything about her was smug.

He was sure she'd find _somewhere_ lethally creative to stick it.

She outright snorted at that, immediately breaking into a fit of girlish giggle-guffaws. She was so loud and contagious that Longshot couldn't help but laugh along. When the laughter finally died down, Longshot was left coughing on the dust, dirt and polish scent he'd inhaled in an attempt to catch his breath. Smellerbee was staring at him, still letting out a chuckle now and again, happy tears stuck in the corners of her eyes.

"Made you laugh."

Longshot's head snapped up when he realized that he had, indeed, been laughing out loud. He smiled, but it came out as more of a wince through another cough and watery eyes.

Bee smiled back, and they fell into silence.

"Um. I think there's some lunch waiting for us, and we've done more than enough work with the weapons for right now." Smellerbee stood up and stretched, then turned and headed for the shed door. "Coming?" She tossed a look at her companion over her shoulder.

He wasn't sure what made him do it. Maybe it was the heat; maybe it was the way the sun outlined her when she threw the door open and let it slam against the wall it was bolted to. It could have even been the way she cursed when a splinter of it flew off from the impact.

All Longshot knew was that, before he knew he was doing it, he had turned Bee around and engulfed her in a crushing hug, planting a barely-there kiss to her sweaty headband. She went rigid in his arms, before seeming to realize what had just happened. She pushed him away more forcefully than was necessary.

"I – um – you-" She took a large, gulping breath, and turned her back to him, crossing her arms. "You're crazy." She didn't sound as angry and accusatory as she should, something that uplifted Longshot, despite the rejection.

While she was muttering about lunch, and running off, he couldn't help but think that there was hope for them after all.


End file.
